Losing it All
by Mitchie Love
Summary: These days he could feel his chest close up a bit more. He felt trapped underneath a house that was about to concave, each of the bricks falling on his one by one, forming a tower on top of him.


It used to be easier. Back in third grade when he began to build a metaphorical shrine for Lydia Martin. When he fell in love with her strawberry blonde hair, her green eyes and small stature, his entire world flipped around. Everything seemed more beautiful, but somehow rainbows still paled in comparison. And she was smart. Smarter than him, he supposed. When middle school rolled around, he couldn't understand why she began to hide her brains. She started wearing heels to school in seventh grade, but had been stomping out the weak since third.

Now it was the constant dread that everything would fall to pieces in a second. It stopped being stress a long time ago, when he discovered that "possibly" now meant "if it's not this, it's worse." These days he could feel his chest close up a bit more. He felt trapped underneath a house that was about to concave, each of the bricks falling on his one by one, forming a tower on top of him. He was often reminded of when he and his mom played Jenga. Each time he took a piece out, he thought the entire thing would fall down. When it didn't, he got excited and usually as he placed the piece on top, the structure would collapse. His mother would laugh and pick up the pieces and rebuild it to play again.

Stiles had a feeling that if he finally collapsed like that, there was no chance that he could ever get back up. His mom was no longer there to protect him or pick up the pieces. Werewolves, druids, whatever else anyone could come up with attacked all sides of Beacon Hills. Nothing was safe, but he would keep his dad safe. Under all circumstances, he would make sure that he would not lose anyone else in his life. Heather would be the last.

Heather.

When she disappeared he felt the Jenga piece coming out from underneath him. He lost his balance a bit, but managed to get back up. It wasn't until Scott's mom showed him the body that he remembered the piece went on top of the structure now. His whole self wavered again, somehow keeping it together. Scott was the second call, when he was sure that everything would fall apart. But he managed to play his card rights, he managed, for a second, to avoid a world where Scott McCall didn't fight with him. Somehow he kept calm as his chest flooded, water coming in from different directions as if it'd been raining for years outside. He managed to keep himself together. He was in state of shock until Lydia's small frame crashed into him.

For a second, his reflex was to try and stand up, but when she remained on him, pressing him against the pavement, he stayed. Suddenly he felt ashamed that he ever suspected her, but then remembered what had happened. He'd been working for four months to tear down his shrine to Lydia Martin, to kick her off the pedestal, to move on from her. There were other things, more important that Lydia Martin. There were things now that he could not be blinded by. And besides, she'd never love him. That piece already slid out when her and Jackson seemed to reconcile, and then went up when he decided to give up all hope.

He had to keep it together. He had to breathe.

Breathe long enough to finish this. Breathe long enough to keep his father safe, to make sure that nobody he cared about got hurt. He worked hard to take Lydia Martin off the pedestal because he didn't need one more thing to care about. But as much as he tried to tip her off the throne, somehow she stayed there. Though he realized she was beginning to slip out, he knew his feelings for her were the least of his worries. She was an ally, an asset and somehow he had to view her as that instead of the girl who ignored him until this moment. Instead of seeing her as the girl he thought he loved, but didn't actually.

They killed her, too. She used to sit with him and help him with his homework when his father was working late. She was patient with him, didn't mind it when he got distracted, only gently pulled his attention back on the paper before him. She taught him that if he highlighted everything to keep himself moving, he could stay focused and it worked. Now she was sacrificed, and finding this darach became much, much more important. It was more because he couldn't take it anymore. The agony of keeping himself afloat didn't seem worth it. Especially because his father didn't believe him. Especially because all the lies he'd told him in the past were wearing on him. But of course the Sheriff wouldn't believe him when he finally told the truth.

Stiles felt guilty that he played the dead mom card. Incredibly guilty. Two pieces of him died that moment. He was desperate. He'd always been good at thinking on his feet. It was only a last resort. One went with the fact alone that he said it, and another when his father still walked away from him. His structure began to wobble again, threatening to hit the floor and scatter all over the floor, unable to be fixed. The funny thing about being "the boy who runs with wolves" was that his body never seemed to run out of adrenaline. That could have also been the Adderall he abused a couple of times, but who kept score?

That night he didn't know how he was still standing. When he tried and failed to keep up with Scott, and finally made it to the door, there were four people in the room. It took him a long time to process Scott on the floor, Lydia in the corner, Miss Blake in the middle of it all. Then his dad. Just as he saw him, doubled over on the floor, just as he realized that God, there was a knife stuck inside of him and now the door was blocked. He pushed against it, no matter how much it wouldn't budge, he just pushed and pushed. He watched as Miss Blake twisted the knife, as she kissed his dad and as she shapeshifted. He took his eyes off the scene of a few seconds, the few seconds it took him to get the door open. Scott was looking back at him. Stiles knew that expression, but he still walked past him to find the window shattered and his father gone.

If he was a Jenga game, he'd be swinging to and from, about to fall to pieces. But no, he had to keep himself together as everything in him seemed to be burning. In his brain, everything fell apart and in his chest everything hurt. For a second he couldn't breathe. If his father died, Jennifer Blake might have as well taken his oxygen, his whole reason to live. He failed. He failed to keep him safe. He failed to not lose him. Since all of the sacrifices started, he felt everything was slipping past his fingertips, his sanity along with it all. But this, this felt like someone tore him apart.

It was easier then. Back when his dad was the only hero he had. Back when all his action figures paled in comparison to him. Then, when he wanted to be just like him, when his mom had to come into his bedroom and calm him down during bed time because he wanted to be awake when his dad came home. It started getting hard when she was gone and his father started drinking. He could understand why he wanted to numb himself so much. Right now, even he wished he could do it. This wasn't a game. It never had been, even in the beginning, when he thought Scott being a werewolf was cool. But now it got a lot more serious, now the stakes rose. Before he had everything to lose, and now he was losing it.


End file.
